


push and pull you down

by M0stlyVoid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Auror Harry Potter, Criminal Draco Malfoy, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Harry Potter is Obsessed with Draco Malfoy, M/M, Minor Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Minor Draco Malfoy/Blaise Zabini, Morally Ambiguous Character, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25359148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M0stlyVoid/pseuds/M0stlyVoid
Summary: Harry's resigned himself to petty, inconsequential cases and no real connection to his job at the Auror department—after all, what else would he be doing with his time? He's not happy, not really, but that hardly matters. A chance encounter with a mostly-naked Draco Malfoy exposes him to an entirely different world, one much more colourful than the lonely one he currently occupies—but at what cost?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 54
Kudos: 326
Collections: HP Inspired by Imagery Fest - 2020





	push and pull you down

**Author's Note:**

> written for HP Inspired By 2020, for [this self-prompted gifset](https://brosoverbros.tumblr.com/post/181269730532).
> 
> thanks primarily to jude law for being a total sniper in every single one of his movies. you're my forever girl.
> 
> thanks also to my wonderful friends who have made the past six months since i really joined fandom so enjoyable. your unending support and willingness to read the bullshit i write means the world to me.

“Potter,” Robards calls, winging a light blue case file toward Harry’s desk. Sighing internally, Harry catches it and stares down at the cover. Another petty complaints case—his third this week, he notes mulishly. He’s the only Junior Auror in the department who gets assigned so many trivial files.

He flips through to the front page and can’t hide his frown. “Recurring noise complaints, sir? In a mixed-Muggle neighborhood?”

Robards pauses in his stride towards his office, turning to face Harry and crossing his arms. “Indeed, Potter. Fifth one to come in this month, and the third through Muggle channels. Something is going on at this flat, and the Muggles have picked up that there’s something odd about its resident. They’re getting curious, and we can’t have that. Surely you don’t have a problem following up on this?” His tone is challenging.

Harry drops his eyes back down to the case file. “No, sir,” he says quietly, running his finger along the list of calls about this residence. New owner took possession eight months ago, and since then—Merlin, close to one hundred noise and disturbance complaints? That’s certainly far above the norm, and Harry fully understands why the Auror department is getting involved, but...does it have to be _him,_ again?

Life as an Auror hasn’t been exactly what Harry expected. Although Shacklebolt had let him and Ron into the training program without NEWT scores, Harry had resolutely refused anything else he saw as ‘special treatment’—he insisted on going through the same training classes as the rest of the new class, all of whom were older and either came in from post-Hogwarts college courses that focused on specialised defensive and offensive magic, as well as the basics of Wizarding law, or were recommended up from Magical Law Enforcement Patrol. 

In short, Harry and Ron had been totally lacking in _official_ compared to their cohort. They’d put up with some ribbing at first, most of it lighthearted, and in general they’d been accepted on the whole, if not looked down on like younger siblings.

Until their practical lessons started.

On the first day of dueling class, Harry had been buzzing, anxious to finally prove himself and maybe no longer get treated like a little kid all the time. He’d made sure to get a good night’s sleep, and he took twenty minutes to meditate before heading into work, calming his mind and centering his magic, determined to make a good showing.

After his third handily-defeated opponent of the morning, Harry had rolled his neck a bit and glanced at the rest of his classmates, shocked to see the narrowed eyes and whispers behind hands. 

Ron had looked proud, at least. Harry clings to that when he feels particularly bad about his job and his colleagues, when the memories of the distrust and discontented mutters threaten to overwhelm, when he considers just quitting outright. When he thinks of Trainer Dawlish (never reinstated to active duty after his actions in the War, and bitter about it) finally calling a halt to the practical session and hustling Harry away for testing, finally declaring him ‘dangerous’ and ‘overpowered’.

When he stopped being treated like a peer and started being treated like a threat.

After that, the distance between him and the rest of his cohort only grew, as Harry was shunted off into specialty classes to learn to _control his magic_ and ended up missing on the team-building exercises the rest participated in.

Now, there are in-jokes and half-told memories binding them together, even Ron sometimes, and Harry’s hovering on the outskirts, begrudgingly allowed to join in on the Wednesday lunch outings and Friday trips to the pub, but held at arm’s length, always. Even Ron has been able to integrate a bit, although there’s a notable distance between him and the rest, too—but Harry can see it closing, from his position on the periphery, and knows it’s only a matter of time and shared experiences until Ron’s fully accepted into the fold.

Harry never will be. He knows that now, is resigned to it, and even though every cold shoulder and shit assignment nobody else wants stings, he accepts it with as little complaining as he’s capable of.

What else would he be doing, if he quit? Hermione urges him to reconsider, says there are other paths for him, but really, he just can’t see it.

He can’t play Quidditch even though he still has scouts sniffing around occasionally—but that’s Ginny’s domain now, and he knows the minute he signed with a rival team the news would pivot to rehashing their relationship and building up some fantastical animosity-grudge storyline, and while they’re perfectly cordial (now), Ginny doesn’t deserve that; doesn’t deserve to live in his shadow again, to have all the attention on her be about _him._ He can’t help George at Wheezes—any time he’s popped in to help with inventory for an hour or two, the shop has become totally overrun. And despite Hermione’s assurances, he’s just not _good_ enough at anything else—and at least in the Auror department, there’s the chance for some real action, and not just endless days of paper-pushing with no relief.

Sighing, Harry copies down the Apparition coordinates and slips his notebook and Quick Quill into his robes before striding out of the bullpen, head lowered so he doesn’t have to meet anyone’s gaze. They all saw the light blue file cover, they know what type of case he’s been assigned _again,_ and he doesn’t want to see the mockery in their eyes.

* * *

Harry frowns up at the massive Georgian-style building he’d landed in front of, noting the grand, if crumbling, exterior.

“Figures,” he mutters to himself as he strides up to the front door and lets himself in. Luckily, the building isn’t terribly tall, and the address he’s looking for takes up the entirety of the second floor—Harry isn’t in the mood for endless stairs today.

 _Bloody toffs,_ he thinks viciously as he checks for his wand before heading up the sweeping staircase. _God forbid they actually_ learn anything _about Muggles and how to be respectable neighbors before they buy a flat in a mixed building simply because it’s_ in fashion…

Harry jabs at the buzzer next to the flat’s door, frowning at the ornate gold plating that doesn’t fit with the rest of the building’s understated, if worn, elegance. 

Folding his arms over his chest, he taps his foot and waits a few minutes before buzzing again. It’s only on his third attempt, when he’s considering ‘accidentally’ blasting through the lock and claiming it had been that way when he arrived, that the door finally cracks open. 

“Who is it?” drawls a hoarse voice, and when he hears it, Harry’s never been closer to quitting the corps than he is at this moment. 

Because, of _course_ it’s Malfoy. 

“Auror department,” he says dully, not bothering to try and sound professional. There’s no point. “We’ve received a complaint and have been sent out to address it with the owner. May I please come in?” 

“Fuck,” the voice swears, and the door swings the rest of the way open to reveal Draco Malfoy, hair a mess and eyes bloodshot, clad in a pair of skintight teal briefs that hang low on his prominent hipbones. Harry swallows and resolves to keep his eyes above the nipples. “They sent _you_ for a noise complaint? I can assure you, Potter, I’m not hiding any nascent Dark Lords in my flat.” Malfoy’s voice is scratchy, like he’d been up late shouting or...doing _other things,_ things that Harry firmly shoves to the back of his mind. 

Harry clears his throat and attempts an ingratiating grin. “Afraid so. I’ve a notice with a fine attached this time around, unfortunately, and there are a few notes that need to be reviewed, so if you wouldn’t mind terribly letting me…” His voice trails off as he glances behind Malfoy into the foyer—and the large glass coffee table scattered with mostly-empty Potions vials, Muggle bank notes, and a baggie of white powder. 

Malfoy notices his wandering attention and glances over his shoulder. When he meets Harry’s raised eyebrow, he smirks and leans against his door frame, a move that pops one of hipbones into even further prominence. Harry does _not_ look at his thigh muscles. “I’ve a prescription,” he says smoothly. 

Harry barely keeps his jaw from dropping. “A prescription—for _cocaine_? I don’t think so, Malfoy. You’re going to have to let me in.” He steps forward. 

Malfoy doesn’t move. “Do you have a warrant?” They’re very close now—too close, Harry can see how dilated Malfoy’s pupils are, can count the freckles on the bridge of his nose, faded now that he’s been back from his much-photographed orgiastic ‘class reunion’ in Ibiza. Harry had recognized many members of Slytherin house from the pictures in the papers, both in their year and not, and to his surprise a few Ravenclaws, but the rest of the guests had been impossibly gorgeous and utterly unknown to him. 

“No,” Harry says, watching Draco’s gaze drop to his mouth. “I didn’t need one for a simple noise caution, Malfoy, but—” 

"Draco? Darling, what are you doing out of bed?” A light voice floats into the foyer, followed by a gorgeous, petite brunette, who’s wrapped in a silky-looking purple robe. 

Harry takes a hasty step back and averts his eyes, face flaming. The robe is _very_ short. 

The woman steps up next to Malfoy, who wraps his arm around her waist and smirks at Harry. “Just Auror Potter, Tori—it would seem we were a bit noisy last night, and someone called the bobbies. Potter, do you remember Astoria Greengrass? She was the year below us.” 

“Er—a pleasure,” Harry says awkwardly, staring determinedly at Malfoy's chin. The robe is also tied very loosely. 

Astoria cuts him a narrow glare, then pouts up at Malfoy. “Get _rid_ of him, Draco—we’re ever so bored upstairs without you,” she coos, running her hand down his torso and tugging at the elastic of his briefs. 

Malfoy rubs his thumb over her hip, then gently pushes her back behind him. “Won’t be but another moment, love. You and Adriana can amuse yourselves for a bit longer, can’t you? Check the cabinet in the sitting room, I’m sure you’ll find something in there to keep you occupied.” 

Astoria giggles. “Fine. But don’t blame me if we’re too _occupied_ to notice when you come back!” Harry and Malfoy both watch as she skips out of the room, pausing to snatch up the baggie from the coffee table before she throws a wink over her shoulder and disappears. 

“I suppose she’s got a _prescription_ as well, then?” Harry says drily. 

“But of course,” Malfoy retorts, stepping out into the hall and holding out an imperious hand. “Now, I believe you’ve a fine for me? Hand it over; my solicitors will take care of the paperwork and payment.” 

Harry blinks. He’d been expecting—well, literally _any_ other response, and certainly more of a fight. He draws the envelope out, but hesitates. “You understand, Malfoy, that at this point this will have to go on your record? They aren’t just petty mischief any more—you’ve had too many complaints in too short a time. I’m meant to review the ordinances with you and set up your enrolment in a course on the regulations around living in mixed and Muggle neighborhoods.” 

“ _Merlin,_ Potter,” Malfoy groans, and Harry very carefully does _not_ imagine hearing that in any other context. Malfoy uses his momentary distraction to snatch the envelope. “If I didn’t have _much_ more interesting affairs to attend to upstairs, I’d take this time to advise you how _deeply_ disappointed I am at how tedious you’ve become. Sod the ordinances—no doubt calling in the law was the most excitement some of these dullards have had in years. Happily, I _do_ have better things to do with my time. You can expect the acknowledgment of the fine, the payment, and my medical exemption from any and all Ministry-sponsored _behaviour_ courses to be Owled over before close of business tomorrow.” He steps back and starts to close the door, but pauses for a moment, flicking an appraising gaze over Harry, who resists the urge to straighten his robes. “You know, Potter, you look like you could do with a little _excitement_ yourself. Feel free to ring over if you’re ever interested in a little stress relief—I have a Healer who could write you a _prescription,_ too. Anything you want.” He winks and clicks the door shut, and Harry hears the sizzle of Silencers being drawn up. 

He stands in the hall for a moment, dumbfounded. Did Malfoy really just… 

Shaking himself, Harry turns and heads back down the staircase and out of the building. Malfoy’s total lack of concern about his fine and his assurances that he won’t have to actually face any consequences is pricking something in him, an old feeling he hasn’t had since—well, since he was sixteen and spent an entire school year following Malfoy around Hogwarts, staring at his name on a map deep into the night and blowing off his friends, his _girlfriend,_ to skulk in his Invisibility Cloak around corners and behind statues to trail him. 

As Harry writes his report up, fudging the details just a bit so he doesn’t get reprimanded for skiving off half the reason they sent him over, he thinks. And when he digs through Malfoy’s extensive file and locates multiple records of his drunk-and-disorderlies outside Albert’s in Chelsea, he firmly pushes away the little voice in his head that sounds exactly like Hermione, shrieking at him that this is an _incredibly_ bad idea. 

Malfoy had essentially propositioned him in the middle of the day, after all. He was practically _asking_ to be investigated. 

* * *

The rest of the week drags on, but finally it’s Saturday, and Harry stops for coffee on his way home from Luna and Neville’s after dinner—he slept in today, but he suspects he’ll need the caffeine boost if he ends up staying out as late as Malfoy always seems to. 

He changes out of his cosy jumper back home, opting instead for a slim-fitting black shirt and dark jeans—he’s not planning on being seen at all, but on the off-chance his cloak slips, darker clothing will help him stay unnoticed until he’s able to get out of there. 

He putters around his flat until ten, distracting himself with tidying and dishes, firmly ignoring the creeping thoughts of _what am I doing_ and _this is a terrible idea._

Finally, his alarm chimes, and he grabs his Invisibility Cloak and Apparates to an alley around the corner from Albert’s. 

Getting into the club is a doddle—Harry waits until a group of well-heeled, scantily-clad young women are ushered in and the doorman is distracted by their backsides, slipping through the closing door behind them with confidence that if it catches his foot and seems to pause on nothing, nobody will notice. 

He makes his way through the ground floor behind the group he followed in, noting the dark-panelled walls and rich blue upholstery. The place _screams_ more money than sense, and Malfoy probably fits right in, Harry thinks meanly. 

They finally reach a staircase and descend into the basement, and the atmosphere change is immediate and jarring. 

Harry blinks, pressing his back against the wall to avoid bumping into anyone as his eyes adjust to the darkness, punctuated regularly by colourful lights flashing through the smoky air. He drops a muffling spell over himself to lower the pounding bass to a more tolerable level. 

Looking around, Harry takes in the crush of bodies on the dance floor. It’s absolutely packed tonight despite the still relatively early hour, and just as he’s despaired of ever tracking Malfoy down in all of this, he thinks to look to the couches off to the side, up on a platform and roped off as a VIP area. 

There he is—sitting in the middle of the biggest couch, slouched down in his seat, glittering eyes passing over the crowd and a faint sneer twisting his mouth—Draco Malfoy, in black trousers and a navy shirt that’s so sheer his nipples show through clearly when the pulsating club lights cross over him. Harry tugs the cloak tighter around him and steps back into the shadows, leaning against a wall directly across from the couches. 

Harry stands there for hours, watching Malfoy survey the room like a king on his throne. He watches as strangers enter Malfoy’s orbit, hands pressing together briefly in some sort of exchange—Harry can guess what Malfoy’s giving out. He watches as Astoria appears from the crowd and curls up next to him on the couch, giggling into his neck as she sneaks a hand down to the top of his trousers, drawing her fingers along the skin just out of Harry’s sight as Malfoy presses a pill onto her waiting tongue, then kisses her before she grabs onto someone’s hand and allows herself to be pulled back onto the dance floor. He watches when Blaise Zabini (who certainly grew up nice, good God, he’d been striking in school but that’s _nothing_ compared to what he looks like now) sidles up behind Malfoy, who tips his head back to listen to whatever Zabini’s whispering, then nods once and stands, taking another look around the club (surely he doesn’t pause on where Harry’s standing?) before striding in the direction of the bathrooms, Zabini following along like a puppy on a lead. He watches when they both come back, Malfoy’s shirt untucked now but the rest of him still pressed together in icy perfection, Zabini a dazed, bruise-lipped mess who lingers hopefully as Malfoy lights up a cigarette and ignores him. 

He watches as Malfoy sits, and smokes, and never relaxes, not once, never goes to dance, never approaches anyone—just sits and observes the room through heavy eyelids while the lights turn his hair neon. 

Sometimes his gaze lingers on Harry, but surely it’s chance, or one of the bright, sparkling clubbers near Harry catching his eye—Harry knows his cloak is on securely, Malfoy can’t know he’s there. 

Some club boy in a tight white vest with glitter on his high cheekbones is at the rope divider, and when Malfoy sees him, he nods to security, who steps aside. The man’s face is too-flushed and his smile is frenetic, but Malfoy’s dark gaze is appreciative. 

Harry watches as the twink slides into Malfoy’s lap with no precursor, bold as brass, and puts his mouth to Malfoy’s ear. Malfoy bends his head to listen, but his eyes— 

He’s staring directly at Harry. There’s nobody else near his spot right now, but Malfoy’s eyes are trained unerringly on the blank patch of wall that Harry _should_ look like. He glances down at himself to confirm—he’s still invisible, but when he looks back up, Malfoy’s still watching him, smirking. 

Harry holds his breath until Malfoy turns and starts whispering to the man in his lap, one hand on his arse, the other disappearing and doing _something_ that sets the other man squirming in his lap. A bottle and glass float Malfoy’s way—is he really doing magic in the middle of a Muggle club and not even trying to hide it?—and when the glass is full and the bottle back on the table, Malfoy extracts his hand and grabs the tumbler, tilting it towards the man in his lap, who opens his mouth and lets Malfoy pour some of the drink in. They share the beverage until it’s gone, and then Malfoy pulls what can only be a joint out, sets it between the man’s lips, and lights it with a snap. 

Harry and Malfoy both watch the other man smoke for a minute, watch as his eyes close as he inhales, holds his breath, exhales, the smoke lighting up green, blue, purple in the club lights. Malfoy pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and takes his own drag before tossing it into an ashtray, then pins Harry with a gaze, a hint of humour playing at the corners of his mouth, as he slowly runs his hand up the man’s thigh, all the way up to the clearly visible bulge in his lap, fingers teasing over the man’s cloth-covered cock before disappearing out of Harry’s sight. 

Harry is utterly frozen as he watches. The club is too hot all of a sudden when it hadn’t been before, the lights too bright, the music thrumming in his ears despite his muffling spell, the air too smokey. He can’t catch a proper breath, and he can’t look away from the man in Malfoy’s lap, whose back is arching and hands are sliding up that sheer, sheer top. Can’t pretend that Malfoy isn’t looking directly at him any longer, that narrow gaze holding him in place as effectively as a _Petrificus_ even as his hands are busy elsewhere. 

Harry sees rather than hears the man gasp and bury his face in Malfoy’s neck, and he’s unfrozen suddenly, stumbling out of the club and back to the alley as fast as he’s able. 

He doesn’t remember Apparating home, but he’s in his bedroom, jeans around his thighs as he stumbles towards his bed. He reaches the edge and steadies himself against a post, taking himself and wanking until he spills with a loud cry, heavy bass beats and too-sharp grey eyes lingering in his mind as he comes. 

* * *

A week passes, and Harry flounders through his work, filling out reports and answering petty nuisance calls in a daze. Ron notices something’s up, he thinks, but he’s been put on a team investigating a murder, so he’s out of the Ministry most days running down leads and conducting interviews, and Harry is allowed to sit at his desk and stare blankly into nothing as he thinks about what happened on Saturday. 

He should write Malfoy up, Harry knows. He might not have seen anything too dire, but a Pensieve of him performing magic in front of Muggles is enough for a warrant, and Harry _knows_ what they’d find if they could get into his flat. 

Harry would be praised for this, he knows. He’d get pats on the back for his initiative, for finally pinning something that might actually stick to the elusive Malfoy heir for once. The Auror department has attempted to bring him in on various charges in the past, but every time Malfoy’s slipped out of their grasp, behind his phalanx of solicitors who harangue the Ministry’s prosecutors until he gets away with a caution and a fine. They’ve never been able to catch him with anything solid or substantial, and Harry knows a surprise warrant on a Saturday morning would lead to hard evidence that even Malfoy couldn’t wiggle out of. 

He has a file, bright green for illegal and trafficked substances, hidden in the top drawer of his desk. It stays blank all week, and when Friday afternoon rolls around and he listens to the rest of the Aurors start to pack up and loudly discuss which pub they’re heading to next without even pretending to invite him along, he sends it back, unmarked, to the file repository. 

Harry spends Saturday with Andromeda and Teddy, trying to quell the itch under his skin when he thinks about what Malfoy might be doing right now. It’s not as much of a distraction as he’d hoped—Andromeda’s prominent cheekbones and light eyes resemble Malfoy too closely, and he keeps flashing back to the week prior, to Malfoy’s gaze from across the club. 

His dreams are vivid that night, but when he wakes up the details slip away, leaving him hard and hazy in the early Sunday light. His wank in the shower is utterly unsatisfactory, even when he calls up his favourite fantasy. 

By early afternoon he can’t take it any longer and Apparates back to Malfoy’s building. The street is quiet, but Harry catches the shimmer of spellwork as he _Alohomoras_ the door open, and when he reaches the second story he has to push through a set of anti-Muggle wards. As soon as he’s through he can hear music leaking through Malfoy’s door—at least he’s finally learnt to at least _try_ and maintain a low profile, Harry notes as he approaches the door and considers the doorbell. 

He knocks lightly instead, isn’t surprised when he doesn’t get an answer, and twists the doorknob, pushing it open when he discovers it’s unlocked. 

The lights in Malfoy’s flat are all off, but the windows are thrown open, which is probably why the smoke isn’t as heavy as it should be considering how many people have lit cigarettes dangling from their mouths. The music is loud but not oppressively so, a rolling seductive beat that doesn’t have words. Harry can see people draped over every bit of furniture, arranged like particularly debauched art installations, with couples and groups getting off in the corners, and a small cluster around the coffee table, cutting more white powder into lines. 

Nobody looks up when Harry steps in and shuts the door. He shifts on his feet awkwardly, not sure where to look—he doesn’t want to stare too closely at the corners, but neither is he interested in eye contact with anyone sipping potions—but finally his gaze lands on Malfoy, propped against a wall in a corner, next to one of the large, wide-open windows. His legs are crossed and he’s got a cigarette in his mouth, and there are two full drinks on the windowsill next to him. He meets Harry’s eyes and tilts his head. 

There isn’t even a moment of hesitation before Harry crosses the room to join him, leaning against the other wall of the corner. Malfoy blows a plume of smoke towards him, then wordlessly hands over one of the drinks. 

“Were you expecting me?” Harry asks, holding his glass up to the light to admire the amber shine before taking a sip. It’s his favorite brand, as he half-expected it to be. 

“I wondered if perhaps you’d be interested in a more _hands-on_ rendition of the show from last week—you left awfully early, you know. Missed the main event.” Malfoy’s voice is quiet; Harry has to lean closer to hear. 

“How did you know I was there?” he questions, eyes caught on Malfoy’s throat as he takes a drink. 

Malfoy sets his drink back onto the windowsill. “Potter, I always know when you’re near. I know what your eyes on my body feel like." 

Harry sucks in a breath, then leans back against the wall and sips his whisky, watching as Malfoy’s eyes trace down his throat as he swallows. 

Now it’s Malfoy moving closer, one hand against the wall next to Harry’s head, pinning him into the corner. He holds the cigarette to Harry’s lips and watches intently as Harry inhales, holds the smoke in his lungs, exhales. Malfoy shivers when the smoke hits his face. 

Harry gets one more drag before the joint is tossed aside and his drink plucked from hand. Malfoy properly crowds him against the wall, his now-free hand tracing down Harry’s body and cupping his mostly-hard cock through his trousers. 

“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve come here for,” he murmurs, unbuttoning and unzipping Harry’s trousers one-handed, then slipping his hand in and squeezing Harry’s cock over his pants. 

Harry closes his eyes and melts back against the wall. “You know,” he groans, tilting his hips up. “You know why I’m here.” 

He feels like he’s floating as whatever was in the cigarette hits him fully—he’s wrapped in cotton, surrounded by the sound of rushing water as Malfoy rubs him over and over until he comes in his pants like he’s still at Hogwarts, and he plummets back to earth, eyes springing open, gasping for air. 

Malfoy lets him pant and come down from the high, then pulls his hand free and strokes his fingers along Harry’s chin before he puts his lips to his ear. “You’ve come this far already, Potter, and I don’t play for free. Did you want to return the favour out here, or in my bedroom?” 

Harry meets the challenging gaze head-on. “Lead the way, Malfoy.” 

* * *

“I’m sorry, Hermione—I know I missed dinner last week too, but something’s come up and I can’t make it tomorrow.” Harry thinks he’s doing an admirable job of sounding contrite, considering he’s got Draco Malfoy sprawled on the carpet, just out of the Floo’s line of sight, nude and fingering himself and clearly moaning behind the Silencing charm Harry’d cast before calling over to Ron and Hermione’s cottage to make his excuses. 

Hermione sighs. “Harry, I don’t— You don’t need to feel _beholden_ into coming over every week, you know, it’s just...Ron said you’ve been late almost every day for the past month, you’re missing out on Burrow brunch and Gryffindor pub night and now our dinners...I’m worried, that’s all. You haven’t been acting like yourself. Are you sure you’re okay? Where are you even calling from, did you get a new coffee table?” 

Harry cuts his eyes over to Draco, who’s got three fingers inside himself now and is reaching for a vial of bright purple potion on the edge of said coffee table. “I’m fine, Hermione. I promise. I’d tell you if something were wrong. Haven’t I always? Look, I’ve got to go—tell Ron I’ll see him Monday, yeah? And we’ll meet for lunch this week. Promise.” 

“Harry—” He’s barely cut the Floo connection before he drops the Silencing charm and crawls over to Draco, snatching the vial, uncorking it with his teeth, and downing it in one swallow. 

“You git,” Draco gasps, reaching up and hauling Harry in for a kiss. Breaking it off, he whines through his teeth when Harry reaches down and runs a finger over his stretched-out rim. “You don’t even know if you’ll like that one.” 

“I like whatever you give me,” Harry murmurs, pushing the tip of his finger in and watching Draco’s pupils get even bigger. “You slut, four fingers and you’re still begging for more. Whatever it is you took earlier—you should do it more often.” Harry’s vision is fuzzing out at the edges as he pushes his finger further in and crooks it so it hits in just the right spot. 

Draco’s head smacks against the floor. “Fuck,” he pants. “You like me like this, Potter?” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, leaning down and biting hard over Draco’s left nipple, hard enough that there will be marks for most of the evening. Hard enough that whoever tries to get too close to Malfoy at the club will see through his sheer shirt and know that someone _else_ has already had him, that whatever treats Malfoy hands out tonight, his body, the sounds he makes, they’re all totally off-limits now. 

Watching Draco squirm and sigh and bite his lips under him, Harry wonders what aspects of his life now he should be more concerned about developing a dependence on. He can’t worry about it now, though—he’s got more pressing affairs to consider at the moment. 


End file.
